


behind my eyes

by thunderylee



Category: Good Charlotte, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, F/M, Fluff, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-09
Updated: 2006-04-09
Packaged: 2019-02-08 01:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: After a near-death experience, you finally admit what you’ve been conveniently ignoring for almost a year now.





	behind my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck.

Benji hates to drive. You know this because you’ve gotten pretty tight with him over the past year, after he heard about your band on the Internet and dragged his brother to a shitty little venue in your hometown to see you perform. It was a rather embarrassing moment to notice them in the crowd after covering their song ‘I Heard You’, complete with your own R-rated version of the lyrics, but now that seems like ancient history.

For the most part, you still live at home and continue working at your job. Your bandmates do the same, although the four of you spend most weekday evenings rehearsing in your bassist’s garage while the weekends are devoted to gigs. You were signed to your boss’ record label awhile back and get played on independent radio every now and then, but for the most part you’re just another quasi-punk local band with a chick singing lead who also happens to be friends with the Madden twins.

Things really blew up over the summer when you wrote a controversial song for their new album, one which they insisted you sing with them. You missed a good amount of work in order to fly to L.A. and record, not to mention the bullshit that came with your boss and their manager butting heads over compensation. In the end, you took matters into your own hands and decided to accept no money for your time and voice in exchange for song-writing credits and a shout-out to your band on the album. The twins were reluctant to agree – they were on your boss’ side in all of this and kept trying to pay you under the table – but you weren’t having any of it. You got into this business so that you could share your voice and song-writing with the world, and money wasn’t an issue as long as you could pay your rent and feed your band.

You snort at the memory, remembering how young and naive you were a mere six months ago. Everything changed after the song was released and you appeared on a local radio station to perform it live with them. It was seven o’clock in the morning; you remember because you had to high-tail it out of there right after the performance in order to make it to work on time. Suddenly everyone wanted to know you, and both you and your boss’ cell phones were ringing off the hook with offers of all-expenses-paid trips to New York/L.A./Chicago for an in-depth interview of the girl who wrote what people were calling ‘the song of the summer’.

You’d like to think that it was because you had used the word ‘cock’ in your verse, much to the twins’ and their manager’s reluctance, but somehow you highly doubt it.

“What’s so funny?” Benji asks, looking at you quizzically as he lights a cigarette.

Almost automatically you reach for your pack. “Nothing – just reminiscing,” you reply with a smirk.

He simply nods. You’re pretty sure he knows that you’re only cryptic when it’s about him, because you never shut up about what’s on your mind any other time, but he seems to respect that you don’t want/aren’t ready/too busy lying to yourself to talk about it.

You fill your lungs with nicotine and exhale in a way that could be construed as an attempt to cover up a sigh, focusing on the road before you as you replay the past months behind your eyes. The American Music Awards – there was an experience of a lifetime. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that your song would be performed live, and it was worth missing another week of work (and one of your band’s scheduled gigs) to be on that stage in front of the blinding lights, all of those people, and persistent cameras. You knew then that this was the type of life for what you were meant, and you can still hear the ringing applause and see the twins’ identical proud grins after you delivered the ‘cock’ line (properly edited on TV, of course) and held your last note. Even being nominated for ‘best songwriter’ didn’t hold a candle to that feeling, although you’re sure it would have been different had you actually won. You got a kick out of seeing yourself smirking at the camera while the names were being announced, sticking out explicitly from the sea of tuxedos and evening gowns.

You’ve never been one for appearances, for which the Adoring Public both loves and hates you. They either respect you or chastise you because you wear what you want and don’t look like Hilary Duff, and they either admire you or resent you because they think you’re fucking Benji or quite possibly both twins. _If only they knew_ , you think sarcastically yet sadly. If only they knew that nothing has never and will never happen between you and Benji because you burned that bridge before it was even viewable in the distance, didn’t you? You told him that you don’t believe in romantic love the very first time you hung out, at that shitty venue after your set and a few shots. You drunkenly assured him and anyone else who would listen that you are better off alone, that your bandmates and friends (and yourself) were more than enough to satisfy your hormonal cravings for attention. Two halves don’t equal a whole, you argued, and relationships do nothing but lessen the individual independence of the two people involved.

You felt like an asshole in the morning, but Benji seemed to forgive you and it was never spoken of again. Joel, however, took awhile to warm up to the idea of Benji spending so much time with you, and if you’re being honest he didn’t really come around until you presented him with the song that would make his band soar to the top of the charts. You try not to think about that, though, because trying to figure out Joel makes your head spin. He’s worse than a woman, which makes you feel an inkling of pity for Hilary.

“You’re sure emo today,” Benji remarks, gesturing towards the ash that has built up on your cigarette from neglect.

You laugh in spite of yourself, flicking the butt out the window and lighting another. “Must be the weather,” you lie.

You don’t know why you try to lie; you’re a horrible liar. But Benji nods again and continues to stare through the windshield into the impending storm that’s threatening to pour down any minute now. You would bet your bank account that he’s really glad he’s not driving now. You pretend not to notice as he securely checks his seat belt and he pretends not to notice as you actually put yours on.

When the rain starts, the other drivers on the road immediately morph into incompetent assholes. Your drummer would argue that they were incompetent assholes before, just progressing tenfold at the first glance of a raindrop. However, he’s not in the car with you right now, and Benji has no problem nodding his agreement to ‘newly incompetent assholes’. You take into account his silent demeanor and dismissive nodding and wonder if you’re not the only one who’s emo today.

Your uncharacteristic solemn moods are quite appropriate considering you’re on your way to finally film the video for that song you did together. You’re about six months overdue, but both you and the twins have been putting it off due to the controversial nature of the song itself as well as your busy schedule. You reluctantly agreed to play the role of the girl about whom you sing, as well as the bullshit editing-for-MTV as long as the graphic verse was not cut entirely. This required you to make out with Joel on-screen, of which neither you nor Hilary approved. There was no way around it, though, unless they re-recorded the song with Benji singing lead, or – even worse – hired some random actor to play the male role. You think you would be more comfortable if it was Benji, but for reasons you’re not ready to admit to yourself yet, you’re glad it’s Joel.

It should be quick, meaningless, and over in one take if you’re lucky. This is your last thought as you hear tires squeal all around you, followed by the sound of metal crashing into each other and a shrill cry from next to you.

You slam on the brakes, which proves not to be such a hot idea on the wet road. Narrowing your eyes in an attempt to see through the pounding rain, you concentrate on turning the wheel sharply in one particular direction in order to spin the car into a stop. You pointedly ignore the massive freak-out in the passenger seat as the car skids to a halt at the corner of the intersection, half on the sidewalk and inches away from the streetlight post.

Your head immediately snaps towards Benji. “Are you okay?”

He nods once more, frozen in place. After giving him a scrutinizing once-over, you conclude that he’s fine – albeit a bit shaken up – and in a flash you’ve unfastened your seat belt and joined the frenzy of people screaming at each other over their smashed cars, most of them drowned out by the rain.

A young woman stops mid-shriek when she sees you approaching; you can tell right away that she recognizes you. It’s for that reason you choose her to walk directly towards and whip out a business card. “I have somewhere I need to be, but I did witness this accident and I will make myself available should the police need a statement from me.”

“You’re blessed, did you know that?” a nearby man shouts over at you. “I saw your car weave right past ours without so much as a scratch. You must really have a good relationship with the man upstairs.”

“We have an agreement,” you reply with a dismissive smile. “Is everyone okay here?”

It really is a horrible scene – at least seven cars are ploughed together like some sort of twisted domino game, and you can see someone in a far car who is cradling a very bloody and possibly broken arm.

“I’ve called the police,” the woman to whom you gave your card speaks up. “The paramedics are coming too.”

You nod approvingly and shake your drenched hair out of your face. “I wish I could stay, but I know nothing about medicine and I really can’t wait around until the cops show up. I hope everything works out for you all.”

Feeling like a complete asshole, you wave and walk back towards Benji’s car. You’re soaked to the skin, but you don’t think he’ll care.

Sure enough – “I called Joel and told him to cancel,” Benji says the minute you sit down in the driver’s seat and close the door.

“Did you tell him what happened?” You can’t bear to look at him right now, so you settle for focusing on something nonexistent through the windshield.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “He’s really worried, but I assured him that we’re okay.” Joel was most likely only worried because Benji was freaking out on the phone, but you decide to keep that to yourself. “Do you mind taking me to his place?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “I just need a minute. I-I don’t think I can drive right now.” You’re thinking out loud, and once you get started you can’t stop. “I gave my card to that lady – I think she’s a fan – and told her to have the cops call if they want a statement… don’t want to talk to them now… said I have somewhere to be…”

“There’s an alley down this street,” Benji says, pointing in the direction of the sidewalk on which you are currently half-residing. “Can you make it down the street?”

“Yeah.”

You feel like you’re on autopilot as you shift into drive and cruise at a great-grandma speed. At the end of the block, Benji motions for you to turn right and you pull up in front of an overfilled dumpster behind a fish-and-chips restaurant.

“Beautiful scenery,” you joke as you put the car into park and set the emergency brake for good measure.

“I bet the smell’s even better,” Benji adds with a scoff.

You both heave a huge simultaneous sigh of relief, and it would be ironically amusing had it not been in this situation. You reach for your pack of cigarettes and light one, belatedly realizing that he has done the same. For a moment you feel like you’re channeling Joel, which is a rather disturbing thought on its own.

You smoke in silence, breaking the abnormal unison as your mutual anxiety slowly dissipates with every exhale. You turn on the radio, desperate for any type of background noise other than the storm and the sirens in the distance, and of course what has been privately labeled as That Damn Song is playing on the top-40 station. You’re slightly bemused when Benji starts singing along under his breath with the harmony; normally he changes the station. You can only assume that the angsty, thought-provoking lyrics and minor chords are helping to keep his mind off of what just (didn’t) happen.

The graphic verse begins as you finish your cigarette – having sucked it down at record speed – and you bitterly crush the butt in the ashtray at your edited words. While the climatic final chorus screams through the speakers, one of your own songs is blatantly pushed to the front of your mind. A song that was recorded with only your drummer, too late to put on your band’s album; a song that you will never perform live. You wrote this song last summer during a very chaotic legal situation, where you spent a night in jail due to a big misunderstanding and an asshole county sheriff. Benji was in the next cell and Joel was on his way with the cash for bail, but it was a very long six hours in which you wrote this song instead of sleeping.

The press had a field day with your arrest and you all laughed it off, but the lyrics you devised have haunted you to this day. It’s not a love song; no, it’s much more emo than that. It’s a song about wanting what you refuse to allow yourself, settling for dreams and fantasies because you’ll never admit what’s behind your eyes.

In a related thought, you realize that you only use the word ‘never’ when it’s about Benji.

You know that the real reason that Joel is cold towards you is because you’re lying to yourself. It’s obvious to everyone – your band, your friends, and probably your fans – as well as _both_ of the twins. You figure that if Benji can accept it than no one else should care, except that Joel does. On more than one occurrence he’s accused you of leading his brother on, to which you refuted by bringing up the unmistakable rant from that very first night. If Benji still insists on being in love with you, you asserted, it’s his own fault. It was after those words that your friendship with Joel downgraded to mutual toleration, and to your knowledge Benji knows nothing of it.

“Are you okay?” Benji’s voice breaks your wave of thoughts, and you’re mildly grateful for it. You don’t know whether he’s referring to the accident or your current state of mind, but either way it warrants the same answer.

“No,” you reply, shaking your head. “I’m not okay.”

He looks like he wants to hug you, and he probably does, but you’re not the kind of person who needs someone’s arms around you in order to feel comforted. The concerned look on his face is enough to considerably lighten your mood, and it’s in that second of content that you decide what you are going to do.

Wordlessly, you turn up the volume and switch the radio to play from CD, knowing that some album from The Ministry is permanently stuck in there. At the first note, Benji raises his eyes to stare at you; anyone who listens to you talk for five minutes knows that you don’t care for that band. You ignore his questioning stare and promptly exit the car, feeling his eyes on you as you close the driver’s side door and calmly walk around to his side. He regards you blankly and makes to get up as you open his door, but remains sitting when the palm of your hand gently pushes the center of his chest towards the back of his seat.

With more grace than you thought you possessed, you climb into his lap, straddling his waist and meeting his eyes as you pull the door closed behind you. Your gaze doesn’t leave his as you reach down to the side and pull the lever, causing the seat to fall all the way back along with Benji’s torso. You lean forward, placing your hands on either side of his head while his clutch onto your outer thighs for lack of a better place.

“I’m only going to ask once,” you say quietly, your voice low and almost inaudible over the loud music. “Do you consent?”

Benji’s jaw drops slightly, but he sets his lips in a firm line as fast as they jumped apart. “Yes.”

You look from one hazel eye to another, searching for some kind of protest. Finding nothing but disbelief and anticipation, you nod decidedly – more to yourself than to him – and lower your face to his, briefly brushing your lips against his before fusing your mouths together.

A growl forms in his throat and you swallow the end result, taking advantage of his parted lips to slip your tongue inside. His meets yours instantly, swirling around each other in the lightest of motions. Any conscious thought you may have flies out of your head, and you straighten your legs to lie flat on top of him. You feel his arousal digging into your hip and wonder how he can be hard already, although you have to admit that this has been a long time coming.

Your hands move of their own accord, sliding over his broad shoulders and down the front of his chest, your palms splaying over the stiff material of his T-shirt and the warm body underneath. He makes a strangled noise when your thumb grazes over his clothed nipple, and for a moment your distracted mind thinks that you actually hurt him until he grabs one of your hands and places it under his shirt.

His skin almost burns at the touch, but you take the hint and coast your hand upwards to rub the pad of your finger in circles over his nipple while you continue kissing him. You’re afraid that he’ll start asking questions if you move away from his mouth, and you’re in no position for a lengthy conversation. Besides, finally kissing Benji is like crack; you have absolutely no desire to stop anytime soon.

You’re slightly bewildered when he turns the tables in one swift motion, wrapping his arms around you and holding you against his chest as he flips you onto your back with him on top. You automatically spread your legs as he crawls between them, pressing his erection forcefully against your center, and inwardly you curse the inventor of jeans.

His mouth returns to yours immediately, and it’s apparent that he reversed your roles because you were going too slowly. You thought that – well, it doesn’t matter what you thought because now he’s grinding against you and sucking every ounce of your soul out of your body through his kiss.

You can’t stop yourself from moaning when he reaches his hand under your shirt and shifts upwards to pound against your clit. He takes this as a cue to abruptly tear his mouth away from yours and kiss his way around your neck towards your ear.

His heavy breathing is accelerating your adrenaline, and you waste no time reaching between the pair of you to fumble with his belt buckle and shove your hand down his pants. His cock is hot and thick beneath your fingers, and his groan surges like an electrical shock from your ear down to your core.

As you stroke him, his hands move towards the button on your jeans as you helpfully kick your shoes off onto the floorboard. He lowers your zip and shoves the offending material down your hips, lifting himself with his knees in order for you to kick off your jeans and panties.

You wrap your bare legs around his waist as his fingers plunge inside you; he groans again when he feels how wet you are. You arch your body upwards as he crooks his fingers and repeatedly thrusts them back and forth.

He blindly finds your mouth once more, and you succumb to the overwhelming stimulation of his kiss, his arousal, and his touch all simultaneously. You grab his ass with your free hand and pull him towards you, explicitly conveying your intentions without words.

His fingers withdraw from you and in turn you release your grip on him, and he loops one arm around your thigh as he positions himself for entry. Leaning his forehead against yours, his panted breath is hot on your face as he whispers one word: “Why?”

“We almost died today,” you say breathlessly. “I almost died not knowing what it feels like to be loved by you.”

In response, he fills you with one thrust. Your moan matches his as he curls his free arm around your shoulder and kisses you softly as he begins to move. Your inner walls tighten around him, grateful for the intrusion but at the same time aching with need.

You can’t concentrate on the two extremes of kissing and having sex at the same time, and apparently neither can he; he hastily pulls away and directs his groans into your neck, continually pressing his lips to whatever flesh he can reach as he pounds into you over and over again.

It’s going to end too soon and you both know it. He sinks his teeth into your collarbone and your sanity shatters. His entire body shudders above you as his motions grow erratic, and you both moan each other’s name as you achieve completion together.

You feel his full weight drop on top of you as he releases your leg and slides his arm up your side to your other shoulder, burying his face into your neck. You hold him, rubbing his back muscles through his sweaty T-shirt until both of you regain control of your breathing.

“I think I’ll drive now,” he says briskly, doing up his trousers and getting out of the car before you have a chance to say or do anything.

You take the opportunity to get dressed and step back into your shoes, and you have a feeling he’s waiting for you to be completely decent before he sits in the driver’s seat. He turns the radio back to the top-40 station and makes a face as Hilary Duff’s latest single booms through the speakers. After a few seconds of channel surfing, he settles on independent radio and lowers the volume.

“So what happens now?” he asks warily, putting the car into reverse and backing out onto the street.

“Isn’t that my line?” you reply with a smile.

His eyes dart towards you to deliver a glare, but it’s half-hearted. “You know what I mean. I wouldn’t want to make you go against everything you stand for.”

“I think I did a good job of that myself,” you scoff. “But for now, you go to Joel’s. You can drop me off at the hotel on the way.”

Benji shakes his head. “No. You should be there too. He was also worried about you, even if he hasn’t been that nice to you lately.”

“For some reason,” you say slowly, “I think he’ll be a lot nicer to me now.”

He grins. “Yeah, I’m sure he will.”


End file.
